Sydney New South Wales Info

Sydney New South Wales

'Kangaroos are red and grey, yes?'
I snapped off another picture of the large beast lounging on the grass in front of me and nodded. Otte looked back at the marsupial, master as far as it could see, and considered it with interest. 'But they can grow so big? Some are as big as a cow, is it correct?'
'Actually more than that - some can grow as tall as a house.'
She shot me an astonished glance, amazed at the news: 'No! As big as a house? This is impossible!' I didn't for one moment think she'd ever believe that, and I immediately burst into a fit of laughter. Otte realised the joke and slapped me playfully. 'Nasty man!'

On the way out of Canberra that morning we'd decided to stop off at a spot along the New South Wales coast called Gerrigong. There were wild kangaroos and birds of paradise there and, as the spot had become a frequent break for many on their way to Sydney, the animals were quite used now to tourists stopping by. There was even a small kiosk where food could be collected and fed to the Joeys. Most of the girls had lashed out with fists in their rush to grab a handful of the pellets, and many an unsuspecting male had ended up with a bloody nose through being too close to the pellet bucket.
It hadn't taken long to get here from Canberra. We had left early in the morning and most people had dozed quietly on the bus, all conversation lost to fatigue. Only once along the way did I momentarily rise from my slumber - when we passed a road sign warning us that we were leaving Canberra. Opening one eye to see how far we had to go, I noticed that someone, in a moment of cruel satire directed at the Aboriginal cause, had defaced the sign with the slogan We stole their country, they steal our biscuits. My chuckling woke a few of the others near me, but it wasn't the sort of thing I could really explain to them; they would have had to have seen it as I did.
Today was also the final day of this leg of the trip. That evening we'd be arriving in Sydney and would all be going our separate ways. Myself, Otte, Gwen and Juan - the Spanish guy - had already decided to meet up that evening for a meal and to take our first tentative steps exploring the city. None of us had ever been to Sydney before and were quite looking forward to seeing the sights. I had read that Sydney is much more cosmopolitan than anywhere else in Australia; even Melbourne was supposed to feel laid back compared to it. But nothing I'd read, or had seen on TV, prepared me to what I felt as we drove in.
Perhaps I'd been out of the big smoke for too long, but even in the outskirts of the city I began to feel claustrophobic, tense, frustrated and anxious at the number of people, the closeness of the buildings and the sheer metropolis of the place. Sat on the bus, I really had to force myself to take a few deep breaths and to stay calm. It was ludicrous, really - after all, I'd been to more densely populated cities than this; New York, for example.
The breathing worked and I quickly found myself beginning to calm. As the bus drove into the city centre to drop people off at their respective hostels, tantalizing glimpses of Sydney's landmarks began to flash between the shops and the apartment blocks. As we drove towards King's Cross, the Sydney Opera House blinked at us between the buildings and we found ourselves pointing to it, murmuring at the sight, grinning like idiots. Then we were off again, back towards the central train station to the hostels where most of us would be staying.
Sydney Central YHA is massive. It is like an office block or a hotel complex, eight or nine stories high, with a café, lifts, internet service and a laundrette. There is even a bar downstairs, just outside the main door. My dorm was on the sixth floor and I stood marvelling at the place as I waited for the lift. I mean a lift! In a hostel! Absolutely incredible.
The dorm itself was just as mind boggling. Not only was the room spotlessly clean, but it had a balcony! I'd been on holidays before where I'd stayed in hotels that weren't as nice as this. I selected a bed near the window and stood scratching my head in awe, wondering what to do first.
A quick glance at my watch informed me that I should grab a shower and iron some clothes. I had to meet the others in just over an hour; there'd be plenty of time for marvelling later on.
Otte, Gwen and Juan were staying at Sydney's Hotel Bakpak about five minute's walk from my YHA. As I sat in reception waiting for them to show up, I couldn't help but glance around, smugly comparing their hostel to mine - mine was infinitely superior, but I guessed that price would be playing a big factor. Gwen was first to show up and, as we sat chatting, she confirmed this - I was paying $3 a night more where I was staying. And to the poor, desolate traveller, $3 a night is an awful lot of money. If I'd been staying in Sydney for any longer than a week, I surely would have had to bail out and find somewhere a little more humble.
Sydney's Hotel Bakpak is in the middle of Chinatown and there wasn't really much of a choice as to what our evening meal would be. We popped our heads around the doors of a few until we found one that looked reasonably clean and was reasonably cheap, then settled down to chomp on noodles and rice, washed down with Chinese beer. Juan hadn't tried much Chinese food before and the expression on his face as he tucked into something equivalent to a vindaloo pretty much put a cherry on the day's events. Afterwards, as we walked down Pitt Street on our way to Circular Quay, he was still fanning at his tongue to dispel the heat, like Daffy Duck in a cartoon; a sight so comical even passers by were laughing.
Sydney Opera House just isn't real. As we turned the corner at Circular Quay our laughter quickly subsided, giving way to sheer disbelief. The Opera House was a sight we'd all seen a thousand times before on television and in books, a sight so in your face Australia that now we were here it was impossible to believe we were actually standing looking at it. Otte immediately raised her camera and snapped off about three rolls worth of film; Juan too played the tourist to the full. Gwen and I just stood staring in marvel and in wonder.
Aesthetically speaking, Sydney Opera House isn't the most attractive of buildings, though. In its time it has been described as looking like everything from a bowl full of oyster shells to a giant crab squatting in the sun. And I could definitely see what people meant when they said these things - the Opera House may give the perfect resonance to music and produce the best vibrato for operatic cantata, but to me it still looked like a washing-up bowl full of dirty dishes. A Scandinavian designed it, of course, which may count for a lot.
We spent the rest of the evening at Circular Quay. The Harbour Bridge stretched lazily across the bay, and as we took a seat along the walkway, we watched the people throng by, each pointing out the sights, standing amazed as we had done when we first rounded the corner. When the light began to fade the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge lit up like an explosion. Tourists gasped at the flash and even we looked on with fresh eyes and wonder, each of the attractions reborn into something even more extraordinary than before. Sydney was definitely going to be somewhere it would take me a while to get used to.

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